


This is the Game They Play

by burnthiscityxx



Category: One Direction (Band), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnthiscityxx/pseuds/burnthiscityxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You always kind of have that person, that one person who you feel might interrupt your wedding and be like, ‘Don’t do it cause we’re not over yet’. I think everybody has that one person who kind of floats in and out of their life, and the narrative is never truly over." - Taylor Swift.</p><p>“I think a lot of the time, you still have feelings for an ex…and sometimes, it doesn’t matter how long it’s been. Sometimes you feel like you have unfinished stuff and it’s okay to get back together with them.” - Harry Styles.</p><p>In which Harry and Taylor play the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is the Game They Play

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I listened to Wonderland on repeat and this idea popped up in my head and I had to write it. Apparently, I like to write a lot of Haylor angst. Lol. Tell me what you think and I’ll love you forever.
> 
> Thanks! :) Xoxo.

_So we went on our way_

_Too in love to think straight_

_All alone or so it seemed…_

It’s a Friday morning when he wakes up to an empty room, his suitcase shoved against the wall unceremoniously, clothes already spilling out from when he rummaged through it the night before. There had been a party, he recalls – someone’s birthday or promotion or something – and he had decided to go at the last minute. There had been a few drinks, a few laughs, a few numbers exchanged, but ultimately, he had ended up here – alone in his hotel room, blankets bunched up around his torso, with a stellar view of Manhattan right outside his window.

Just before he decides to catch a few more minutes of sleep, his phone rings and he curses under his breath, bracing himself for busy day ahead. Instead, he finds a familiar face light up the screen and clearing his throat, he answers, presses the phone to his ear.

“Guess where I am,” the familiar voice fills him up, despite his consistent reminder to just  _be cool._  But he can’t, he physically can’t, and he springs up, eyes bright, cradling the phone closer, as if it were possible. It’s pathetic, he knows, but he just doesn’t care.

“I’m not much for guessing games,” he replies.

“Well, get out of bed, sleepyhead, and come answer the door,” she giggles and hangs up and he’s out of his bed like a light, crossing his hotel suite in several long steps.

When he opens the door, she’s standing there like a vision carved out of marble – or  _something_ , he can never really wrap his thoughts around the right words to describe her. She’s light and sunshine and smiles and she tosses her bags to the side and launches herself at him…he remembers to kick the door closed with his foot, before they both wind up on the floor in a mess of limbs.

“Hi, you,” he chuckles, brushing a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes.

“Hi,” she grins, before burying her nose into his neck, peppering feather-light kisses up and down his skin. It’s crazy and insane and they’re both exhausted and it’s going to end in disaster…but he doesn’t care.

This is the game they play every time.

* * *

_Didn't you flash your green eyes at me?_

_Didn't you calm my fears with the Cheshire cat's smile?_

_Didn't it all seem new and exciting?_

_I felt your arms twisting around me_

_It's all fun and games 'til somebody loses their mind…_

Two days later, he wakes up to a loud crash and a string of whispered expletives. Chuckling softly, he scoots to the end of the bed, blankets bunched around him, settling his bare feet onto the carpet. She’s leaning against the door, a pair of boots dangling from her fingers, her hair still mussed from sleep. It’s drizzling outside, rain splattering the hotel window, and he’s struck with the realization that he doesn’t want this to happen – this next part that’s going to make his heart ache for something he can’t reach.

“Is it time?” he asks, voice coming out all strangled.

She nods and grabs her bag off the floor, teeth sinking into her lip in hesitation. “I have meetings and a plane to catch,” she offers, but he doesn’t acknowledge her answer, just lets out a breath.

“Okay. Have a safe flight,” he replies automatically, trying to numb himself from everything in the room. His green eyes lock onto hers and for a split second, Harry thinks this could work – she would stay and they would lock themselves in the hotel room, away from the prying eyes…this could work. But when he sees that flicker of doubt cross her pretty features, he knows it’s a lost cause.

To put it simply, this whole situation  _sucks_.

“Bye, you,” she says, crossing the room to stand in front of him. She runs her fingers through his long hair, tugging on the curls playfully, before leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. She lingers, breathes him in, and he digs his fingers into her hips, letting her fill him up to the brim.

There are unfulfilled promises and so many insecurities between them, but after several seconds, she lets go, leaves him as quickly as she came two days ago.

This is how the game ends every time.

* * *

He doesn’t like counting, hates numbers, has never been good at math. But somehow, on a flight from Los Angeles to London, all he can think of are statistics. It’s been three months since they last saw each other. Four hours since he last heard her voice. He’s tallying up the times they’ve come and gone, ducking out of hotels and rented houses – it’s too many to count. They’ve watched the other one leave so many times that it’s starting to blur together. He knows he shouldn’t complain, that this is just their life now and they have to accept it and that stolen moments hidden in hotel rooms are worth it.

He gets her text message the minute he steps off the plane and without even thinking, he asks the driver to take him to her hotel. Three months is too long, he thinks. You can forget someone in three months and he needs to not forget her – maybe, more importantly, he needs her not to forget him. Because even if they are who they are, he can’t deny they probably deserve better than their little arrangement. They probably deserve all the bells and whistles, fireworks and fairy tales, like the ones they write about in their songs.

It isn’t until she’s crying out his name, leaving bite marks along his shoulder, nails scratching at his arms that he thinks…

Fuck it, he doesn’t want to do any better, doesn’t want fairy tales…he just wants her.

* * *

_Flashing lights and we, took a wrong turn and we_

_Fell down the rabbit hole_

_You held on tight to me_

_Cause nothing's as it seems_

_Spinning out of control_

A week later, they end up at an after-party in a swanky Los Angeles hotel. They didn’t plan it, had no idea the other would be there, but Harry chalks it up to a happy coincidence and tries not to think about fate, the cosmos, and the stars. Instead, he spends the first half of the party next to Ed, making small talk and meeting new writers and producers. It’s only after Ed leaves to the bathroom that she comes up to him, fingers delicately holding the stem of a champagne glass, the clop of her heels muted by the pulsing music.

“Hi, stranger,” she smirks, giggles softly. He’s instantly mesmerized and instantly hates how she has that effect on him, every damn time. But she’s standing in front of him, pure light and sparkle, dressed in a gorgeous mini dress with cut outs and he’s having a hard time keeping his hands to himself. He should be cooler than this.

“Hey,” he grins, licks his lips without even thinking about it, before taking in a quick sweep of the party. There’s a part of his brain – the rational part – that knows they shouldn’t be talking. There are camera phones everywhere, reporters and journalists in every corner, news and media outlets surrounding the rooftop party…in five seconds, a blurry picture of both of them could make its way online and the entire world would be in an uproar.

This is what their life is like now.

She says something about how she didn’t expect him to be in LA and he replies accordingly, but there’s an electric buzz in his brain – partly thanks to the drinks he’s had tonight, partly thanks to the eyes he knows are on trained on them now. Suddenly there’s a camera flash and Taylor freezes, her back straight, her eyes wide.

“It wasn’t us, it wasn’t…it’s for someone else,” he mumbles, falters over his words and he thinks it’s so ridiculous, how one single camera flash can change everything in an instant. He searches her features, desperate to find some sort of warmth or reassurance, but just like that, her walls are up.

“I know, I should...I should go,” she grabs her glass off the table, lets her gaze linger on him a beat more, before whispering that it was nice to see him. With a bite of her lip, she turns and heads off into the darkness of the party.

This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. They’ve been sneaking around for months, mostly because of the unwanted media attention, but also because…they don’t know what they are. They’re not dating, not friends, not acquaintances. They’re ships passing in the middle of the night, locked on one another. They’re magnets and currents and foxes, running parallel to each other, but in unison all the same. It’s routine by now, a perfectly choreographed dance. They’ll keep it secret and everything will be fine, until one of them (usually it’s Harry, sometimes it’s Taylor) starts to feel something more or the media starts to speculate, they pull away, happenstance and loneliness brings them back, and the cycle goes on. It’s like constantly being in reach of something good and then having someone yank it away, but in those few moments…that’s what they both live for.

And even though her leaving makes his heart ache, he knows where this is going. He knows how the night will end. She’ll text him first, an invitation to her hotel masked as an apology, and he’ll give in and they’ll spend the night wrapped up in each other. With a deep breath, he places his hand on his phone, trying not to get his hopes up, despite everything they’ve been through.

Like clockwork, it buzzes.

_But there were strangers watching_

_And whispers turned to talking_

_And talking turned to screams…_

* * *

It’s another two months until they see each other again. She texts him the minute she gets off the plane, takes thirty minutes to burst through his front door, before they both drink each other in. Afterwards, she lies down on her stomach, rests her chin on his chest, her fingers lazily tracing the ship tattoo on his arm. He told her once that it symbolized the journey back home, but after everything that’s happened, Harry can only think of her when he sees it.

“Do you have to go?” she whispers against his skin and he squeezes his eyes shut, wants to live in the silence for a little longer.

“Yeah. I’m…I’m on a flight in a couple of hours to London,” he says. He hates it, hates this situation, hates that every time they’re together, they’re always looking forward to leaving, because they both know this isn’t where they should be.

They broke up for a reason, goddamnit.

 “I should’ve just stayed there,” she chuckles and he smirks against her hair, doesn’t reply because maybe she’s right. And even though she’s in his arms, all slick and sweaty against his skin, even though his fingers are ghosting over the curve of her hip…he can’t help but feel the distance. He wants her so much closer, but they’ve never been further apart.

It takes him two more hours to leave.

_I reach for you_

_But you were gone_

_I knew I had to go back home_

* * *

Three weeks later, he ducks into her dressing room backstage at the AMAs, desperate for some sort of an escape. It isn’t like he hates his life, he loves it, he does. Being a ‘celebrity’ came easily for him and he’s an expert at dealing with the media and the paparazzi. But sometimes – like tonight – he just needs a break.

So he finds her dressing room backstage, checks behind his shoulder to make sure no one’s watching, and slips inside. She doesn’t seem surprised, just reaches out her hand and pulls him down on the couch, her lips finding his quickly. He wants to say good luck, wants to watch proudly from behind the curtains, and it kills him that he can’t.

When they pull away from each other, there’s something in her eyes – determination, worry, confidence, and fear all rolled into one. She opens her mouth to say something and he feels the air change and he just…he  _knows_. It had to end sometime and it’s been coming sooner rather than later. He knows that’s why she’s been pulling away little by little, knows that’s why he feels the distance. And he knows it’s the smart thing to do, what with her new album on the cusp of breaking pop music and the band’s album release…it’ll be too much for them in the next year and he knows what she’s thinking – it’s better to cut it off now, before they get too invested.

Maybe they’re already too invested.

“I think…I think this is it,” she murmurs against his lips and Harry nods in agreement. “I don’t want this,” she adds and he pulls her closer, trying to remember every curve of her before he has to let go.

“Neither do I.”

The words don’t need to be said, but he says them anyway. He can’t stay and she’s about to go onstage, so he wishes her good luck and leaves.

When she accepts her award, he whistles for her, claps as hard as he can, and watches her leave one last time.

_You searched the world for something else to make you feel like what we had_

_And in the end in wonderland we both went mad_

* * *

Three months later, on a Friday morning, he wakes up to an empty hotel suite, blankets thrown haphazardly over his torso. There had been a party – someone’s birthday or promotion or something – and he had stumbled back into the room at an ungodly hour. There had been too many drinks, too much music, too many people…it was just too much. He wonders when too much turned into not enough and Harry turns over, buries his face into his pillow, because he hates this – mornings in a city he knows is so special to him, to her, waking up alone.

Because she’s everywhere.

She’s on his sheets, in his memory, on his phone. And it’s cruel, because he literally can’t escape her. She’s on the radio, magazine covers, TV shows, on his iPod, on their manager’s Google alerts. Her name is on the tip of every interviewer’s tongue, just ready to ask them about the roses rumor or the fact that they went to the same party the week before. And that cuts the most – the fact that he’s seen her, but this time it’s only across a crowded room.

His phone buzzes then and he groans, reaches over to the nightstand to grab it. Turning his head sideways, he catches a familiar name flash across the screen – for a second, he doesn’t believe it, but swipes his finger across it, holds the phone up to his ear, anyway.

“I miss you.”

Her voice is soft and hesitant, as if she isn’t sure whether she should be doing this – he knows they probably shouldn’t, but it doesn’t stop him from getting out of bed and crossing the hotel room to stand in front of his door. He doesn’t know if she’s on the other end, but there’s a part of him that needs it to be true.

“I miss you too,” he murmurs, cradles the phone closer to his ear, because it’s been so long.

“Answer the door,” she demands, giggles escaping her lips and that’s all he needs.

They’re face to face and he drinks her in, her mussed hair, sleepy eyes, pouty lips. They shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t even think about it.

They broke up for a reason, goddamnit.

But when she throws herself at him and he catches her by the waist and buries his nose in her neck, her legs wrapping around his hips…

This is the game they play every time.

Like clockwork.

_We found wonderland_

_You and I got lost in it_

_And life was never worse but never better…_


End file.
